Last night I saw my new counselor for the fourth time. She's very nice and seems to listen. Because throughout my life I've felt that I had to scream to have my needs and emotions heard at all, my persona in therapy can be quite intense as we prod patterns and hurts that have festered for decades...Never abusive or particularly directed at the therapist, mind you, but intense all the same.
Anyway, last night I told her that I realize that she doesn't know me very well and that I hoped she didn't find my outbursts of emotions to be in any way disconcerting or threatening. She just laughed and said that the way I expressed myself often reminded her of Nathan Lane and that she was never concerned. Now don't get me wrong, I love me some Nathan Lane. (His character on Modern Family is more than enough justification.) I'm just not sure how I feel about the comparison.
Pity Party of One
I don't think I can accurately convey how depressed I am over the fact that my computer ate all of copious notes I had put together for my video game, let alone finding anyone who'd be the least bit sympathetic to this loss. (Getting the damn computer repaired is turning into another nightmare, but that's a whole other story. Spank you very much, Lenovo!) I fortunately have enough shame to realize how much of a fatuous, entitled, first-world problem it is, but my mood and emotions have been consistently problematic throughout my sobriety. Keeping alive the anticipation and a sense of pleasure for anything has been a monumental challenge, so even the engagement from a virtual adventure has value for my recovery. All in all, I'm chiding myself to let go of my obsessiveness and reminding myself that I am supposed to be focusing my energies on my writing and other such projects.
